


Fleeting As Wind

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turning back time doesn't always fix everything. After all, John Egbert is an unpredictable variable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fleeting As Wind

**Author's Note:**

> okay so you guys remember when john is an idiot and rockets off into the last gate and gets himself killed but then dave goes back and time and fixes that shit
> 
> well
> 
> what if john didn't listen to him the second time
> 
> what if he didn't reconsider
> 
> yeah
> 
> ((first homestuck fic??? man i wrote this a few months ago FINALLY GET TO SHARE IT NOW YES))
> 
> \--

You could’ve sworn that you had this in the bag— _hook, line, sinker_.

Hell, you were the fucking god of time ( _knight_ , you gently remind yourself, but since when do titles matter?), you were _supposed_ to have this in the bag. You’re Dave Motherfucking Strider, after all, and you _always_ have the situation under control.

You have everything under control.

You don’t have Egbert under control.

He’s an unpredictable variable—the biggest of idiots, at that. How could he be so gullible as to fall to some stupid alien’s ploy, anyway? Too naïve for his own good. It honestly nauseates you a little, but the feeling sweeps over you lightning-quick, and you’re a coolkid once again.

You should’ve seen this coming. You should’ve seen this coming from _miles_ away, because like you remembered, Egbert is an unpredictable variable— _god, he’s so fucking stupid, how could anyone be that fucking stupid_ —and now here you are.

You fucking told him to stay put, _you told the fucking spaz to stay put_ , but he’s fucking _Egbert_ ( _goddamnfuckingshit why are you a fucking Egbert couldn’t you have been a Lalonde or something fucking hell fucking hell why_ ) and he decided to rocket off like the idiot you’ve come to know him as.

Though this time you had a game plan, you had a motherfucking game plan, and you pulled damage control way before he could’ve even had the chance make the stupid decision in the first place. Hell, you talked to him, you had you from the _future_ talk to him, you had the letter that you _know_ he read whenever the hell he fucking got it, and you _knew_ that you had played your cards right.

But Egbert’s an unpredictable variable.

And right before you had the chance to stop him, he blasted off like the fucking _spastic idiot_ he is.

Rather, was.

You felt kind of weird for thinking of him like he was something that still _was_ , but _is_ is the wrong word to use entirely. Kid’s expired. Done for. Gone. Completely, utterly gone.

Well, he’s not _that_ gone. His body’s still there, albeit pretty damn mangled. You know that legs aren’t supposed to bend like that and fuck, you _know_ that there’s supposed to be much more skin and muscle and bone where his neck used to be. Abdomens aren’t supposed to be ground meat and _how is there even that much fucking blood, how, he’s so fucking small goddamn why is there so much blood_. Your facade’s chipping and you struggle way more than you should to set it back in place as you continue to stare down at his body ( _don’t say corpse don’t say corpse don’t say corpse_ ).

The life is still fresh in him—it hasn’t been too long since he was nothing short of mauled—and the blood is still a vibrant red, and you’re able to tell that even with your shades (oh _fuck he gave these to me shit shit shit shit shit no god what_ is _this in my chest get it out get it out fuck fuck fuck_ ) still firmly in place over your equally as red eyes. The kid’s all sprawled out, scattered here and there throughout the area—place’s a fucking war zone, and it’s unfortunate that every last bit of carnage is coming from Egbert himself.

Rubbing the side of your index finger against your nose—you’re the fucking picture of nonchalance, aren’t you?—you crouch by his side and just keep staring. Though you’re wondering what you’ve gained out of closing the space between the two of you, because—you’re going to be frank—death _stinks_. No, you’re not fucking kidding, it fucking _reeks_. But you’re a coolkid, you have a reputation to uphold, so you swallow back the urge to vomit along with this fucking tumor that’s formed in your throat. But the damn thing doesn’t want to go away and just sits there, and your eyes start doing this weird thing and _fuck, you’re feeling shit again_.

“Sup, Egbert.” You nod in his general direction, your eyes glued to his ( _they used to be so blue shit what the fuck happened to you kid_ ). You try to ignore the fact that he’s all torn flesh and stiff limbs and blinding red, instead keeping your attention on his face like the fucking gentleman you are. “You really don’t know how to fucking listen, do you?” You click your tongue, arms resting limply on your knees as you rest all of your weight onto the balls of your feet. Fingers tapping the air in a quick, sharp beat, you wait for the response that you know is never going to come.

A heavy sigh. “Jesus, fuck, you’re so fucking dumb it hurts sometimes.” You’re losing your cool again, only this time, no one’s around to see, no one’s watching, no one’s listening, so you allow it to slide, just this once. “Were you born that dumb or did your dad do something to those cakes he made for you?” You laugh shortly through your nose, the corner of your lips quirking upwards. “I’m guessing it was the cakes.” Your attention wanders elsewhere ( _anywhere but his fucking stupid face_ ) and you begin to bounce anxiously on the balls of your feet, yet you’re quick to lose balance and fall on your ass ( _shit how uncool_ ).

It’s only then that the gravity of the situation hits you and you can feel your facade cracking under the fucking pressure of it all.

“I thought you trusted me.” You accuse hollowly, head skywards as you continue to deny the reality of the situation ( _just turn it back, turn it back, rewind, start over_ ), yet that’s growing more and more difficult the longer the blood seeps through the cracks between your fingers. Your eyes feel wet. Shit, something must be broken, you should really get them checked out.

“I thought that we were closer than that.” You’re so fucking bitter.

 _The dam breaks._

 _One._

 _Two._

 _Swallow._

“I thought that you were smarter than that.”

 _Three._

 _Exhale._

 _Four five. Six._

 _Seven._

 _Shiver._

“I thought that we were _friends_.” Your voice cracks, your body trembles, _what are these fucking emotions, what the fuck are emotions, how am I feeling them, no, no, you have a fucking image, get it together dave, you’re the shit, you’re a strider, you’re so_

No.

 _Fuck being cool._


End file.
